


Your Doctor's Orders or Don't Stick My Dog Tags up Your Arse

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bad ass John, First Time, Hot gun sex, Humor, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, naughty deeds with dog tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 10:59:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11690232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: Sherlock takes what doesn't belong to him and John Watson administers the necessary disciplinary actions to correct his friend. That's what happens when you take your partner's dog tags and do unnatural things to them. Tongue in cheek PWP for the most part, but does have a bit of story tied in.  First person POV John. Set after S2.





	Your Doctor's Orders or Don't Stick My Dog Tags up Your Arse

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd. Currently with out one. If you're interested contact me in comments or on my Tumblr. 
> 
> Written for H.I.A.T.U.S. monthly Johnlock challenge blog for August theme of MILITARY KINK.

He didn’t say bring my gun, but…

I was almost home from Bart’s when I got Sherlock’s text to meet him in Paddington. I decided I might as well stop at Baker Street and pick up my handgun. Better to be prepared especially after that last row. It’s easier to keep a 21 stone behemoth at bay with a pistol pointed in his face.

I keep my army issue SIG Sauer P226 standard in the footlocker under my bed along with my dog tags and discharge papers. I opened the locker to grab my handgun, and as I pushed it into the back of my waistband, I looked down into my locker and noticed that something was amiss. My dog tags. They weren’t there. I scratched my head, shifted the papers around. Not under them. I didn’t recall taking the tags out, but I may have been mistaken.

It took me less time get there than to find the crime scene. Sometimes Sherlock was just as much for-shite at giving directions as taking them. It took even less time to break my date with that cute brunette nurse from the clinic. I’d finally gotten her to say yes to dinner after I’d been after her for weeks.

I bet she never says yes to me again.

“Oh, you brought your gun,” Sherlock said, in a matter of fact tone, hands thrust deep in his pockets. It was that brief instant where Sherlock eyes flickered on where I shoved my pistol that caught my attention. Any other person, I’d think that checking out my arse was a come on. But not Sherlock. Just his shrewd, sea-green eyes, analyzing my...soul. 

We had a fine chase. Some excellent sprints and a bit of long distance run over select obstacles like rubbish bins and chainlink fences and rooftops. I almost didn’t mind that I wasn’t going to have a chance at getting a leg over. I was also beginning to gain respect for the suspect’s preternatural talents for blind jumping from rooftop to fire escape to steel stairwell--but he really could have done without that leap off that balcony. We finally cornered the blighter in an alley when the suspect flashed a pretty impressive buck knife, which he wielded at Sherlock. I pulled out my much more impressive SIG Sauer. Sherlock licked his lips and bounced on his toes with glee--practically clapping his hands. He would have reminded me of a little boy who won the best prize at a fun fair if he hadn’t kept throwing that fiery gaze through those lush lashes every time I told the cornered suspect to drop the knife and face the wall. With a clatter, the knife fell to the pavement, and I kicked it out of reach. Sherlock tossed me a wicked smile as the knife slid, spinning round and round, then hit the far wall. On the ride home in the cab, I itched to say something to the detective about his hot looks, but the old Sherlock was back, texting Lestrade on details he hadn’t given the DI earlier. 

I really needed to get laid.

When I went to return my weapon that night, the dog tags were there on top of my discharge papers in the corner in the foot locker. I was too knackered to confront Sherlock about it. It didn’t cross my mind again until the next time I needed my gun. I found the tags in the opposite corner of the locker.

I didn’t bring it up until we were tied back-to-back in a warehouse that had just been set afire. It seemed like an opportune time. You know, licking flames. Extreme peril. Imminent death. 

“But I sterilized them before I put them back!” was Sherlock’s response. 

To which, I replied: “What?! No! Don’t even  _ tell _ me what you did with them that required sterilization!” And I said it again. Just so he heard.

That seemed to shut Sherlock up. My eyes were beginning to burn, and we needed to get out. I’d drop it. For now. “When I count three, _ stand _ ,” I ordered. “One... Two...”

“Three,” Sherlock finished. We both strained and slipped back down to the concrete floor. 

That hurt. Now my wrists and bum burned as well.

“One time! Just one time, can’t you do what I say?! You always have to have the last word! You count this time if you must.”

“You’re so touchy. Alright. If I must…” Sherlock said, like it was an extreme sacrifice. “I don’t understand why it’s necessary that I count, but very well...One...Two...Three…”

This time we strained and pushed and managed to get up on our feet. I began leading us toward the rickety side door that I’d spied when we first got into this situation. Sherlock followed my lead and walked backwards, his arse pressed against the small of my back. My eyes were stinging and my nose was running, but I got to the door all blind and snotty. Sherlock probably didn’t have a hair out of place--the wanker.

“Brace me,” I said, gagging on the smoke, “I’m going to kick the door down.”

I was amazed that it worked. One. Two. Three kicks, and Bang! The door splintered and caved. We both fell through and landed on top of the flattened door, me face first with Sherlock slamming hard on top of me.

“Get off me! I can’t breathe!” I squeaked out. I hate it when I sound weak and mousey. Happens a lot around Sherlock. I had splinters stuck in me. It hurt. A lot. I think I mentioned those too.

“Obviously you can breathe, or you couldn’t speak. _ And,  _ we are still tied together, so getting off you is not possible at the moment.” 

“Yes, Mr. Obvious,” John said, yanking on the ropes, “I get it.” Sometimes he was such a huge tosser.

Familiar laughter erupted, breaking through our dilemma. Of course he’d texted Lestrade for backup before hand.

“Well, well. What have we here?” came Anderson’s voice. “I always knew you’d both be tied together someday.”

“I think they’ve finally tied the knot!” Donovan joined in.

“Will you shut it?” I whispered to Sherlock just so he only heard. “I don’t care for your commentary at the moment.”

Then I saw a flash. Damn it. 

“What? You’re not taking pictures, are you?” I blurted out.

“Just updating my Twitter as a matter of fact,” Donovan said.

“Oh bloody hell!” I said. “Could you at least untie us? He’s crushing me and my bloody arse hurts.”  Now that was the absolute worst thing I could say. Another round of howls of laughter, this time I heard Lestrade’s and at least two or three others join in.

On the cab ride home, I fumed about the way we were treated.

“We’re never going to live this down,” I complained. “You do know that they recorded it and put it up on Youtube.”

“You don’t mind when it’s about me,” Sherlock said, sitting closer than normal even for an after-the-crime-scene ride. He loved getting into my space at these moments, but he was practically on top of me (for the second time) tonight. “I should be the one most offended--comparing my anatomy to a splinter...Well, you should  _ know _ that the size of my penis is impressive--”

“Stop! Just stop! Either you’re not speaking at all or you’re at full-on uncensored-narration mode. There’s no inbetween with you.”

“I only said that I was going to pull it out of you...the splinter, that is...” 

I noticed the looks the cab driver was giving us in the rearview mirror. Not good. “Sometimes, I swear I feel like throttling you with that bloody scarf of yours.” 

“I’ve read that erotic asphyxiation is a rush that’s said to be no less powerful than cocaine, and as addictive.”

“Sherlock! No! That’s just...well. No, just, no!” I covered my face with my hands. 

As cab pulled in front of 221B, the driver practically threw us out and onto the street while it was still moving. He snatched the fare from my hand and mumbled something about poofs. 

“Do you see! We’ll be lucky to get another cab,” I said, following Sherlock to the door. And I said the last part again, just so he heard.

“John, I’m sure far more shocking matters have happened in that backseat than a few poorly chosen words. The man was a wife abuser and a bigot.”

Sherlock went up the stairs in front of me. He stomped up like a spoiled little boy. I think he was angry. 

“Tea?” I asked when we got inside. Not that I owed it to him. I wanted tea myself. 

“Yes, John.” He went into the bathroom, showered and came out in his low-slung pajama bottoms with his red bathrobe. By then I had the tea made and changed into sweats and a t-shirt myself. He flung himself dramatically on the couch and took the tea from my hand. The cup rattled around on the saucer. He barely made eye contact with me. He knew it was coming.

He was still pouting, so I turned it back on him.

“Tell me why did you have to sterilize my dog tags?” I asked, and he actually blushed. I mean from his forehead, down his neck--all red. He blinked. Repeatedly. And looked away. 

I waited. And waited. He was still blushing and speechless. I could only think of a few things that have made Sherlock flush over the years. My compliments. My teases. Talk about sex. Or talk about sex and that woman. Now my tea cup was rattling in my hands.

“Oh. My. God,” I said. “What did you do with my dog tags?” And why, I wanted to add. I was blushing too. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, then he snapped it shut and frowned.

“It’s a bit not good, yes?” I asked.

“That depends on the perspective,” he said slowly, and flinched. Yes, actually flinched. The man who flung himself out of moving vehicles without a second thought and leapt in front of roaring trains in the Underground actually flinched!

I was petrified. And exhilarated. Sherlock had a fetish. A sexual urge. A kink! Although my dog tags were a rather odd erotic obsession at least he had one. And for the first time I actually thought that something more could come of “us” than flatmates.

I had long suspected that he rather enjoyed it when I barked orders about, but I never allowed myself to go much further in my thoughts than that. I was having a hard time imagining what a person might do with dog tags. Not that I hadn’t seen some strange masterbatory habits as an army doctor. It was the fact that it was such a personal object, however, that gave me pause as to what that could mean. Also, thinking of Sherlock masterbating in any scenario sent me into a near orgasmic state myself.   


Still, I really, really wanted to know what he did with them, but asking again only made him blush harder.

“I can’t…” he said. “I can’t say.”

For Sherlock not to be able to “say”? 

I suddenly knew how to help him (not myself of course--I’d gotten rather good at lying to myself).

I licked my lips, then took a chance. “How about you show me. I _ am _ a doctor after all--”

“Yes,” he whispered in his deep, sonorous voice, “an  _ army  _ doctor.” Then he bit his lip. “Order me and I’ll show you, Captain Watson.”

That was devious. And hot. I snapped to, looked down at him with steel in my eyes, then barked out: “I’m John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart’s bloody Hospital! I order you to march upstairs, get my dog tags, then bring them down and demonstrate for me  _ what you did _ !”

With each word I spoke, I could see his cock jump degree by degree to full attention. I remained as detached as possible, but it was getting hard.

“Now!” I said. He leapt off the couch, dick pointing through those blue Italian silk pyjama bottoms up the stairs. He came racing back down the stairs, cock bouncing and dog tags dangling in his clenched fist.

“Your bedroom,“ I ordered. “On the double!”

“Yes, Captain!” His voice become a bit raspy. I liked how he hesitated a bit too before turning into his bedroom.   


I pointed to get him started to his room, then marched behind him. Believe me, it was not burden to follow that red pure-silk dressing gown, belt seductively slung low on his hips. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the fucker was intentionally swaying them. 

I kicked the door shut behind us. 

“Remove those pyjama bottoms, but leave on the robe. Undo that belt and unbutton that top. Now, on the bed. Face up,” I said. “You want to be ordered. You liked it when that woman did it.”

“She never... we never...” I felt a rush of relief. 

“Do you require anything else to prepare for this demonstration?” I asked.

A blush crept into his cheeks again as he spread himself like an exotic dish in front of me. Creamy skin and sprinkled with freckles and sharp angles. So different from anyone one I’d ever been with, and yet more desirable.

“Yes, sir.” 

“What do you require?”

“The lube. It’s in my bedside table’s middle drawer.” The deep, rich timber of his voice alone made my dick grow with interest. 

I walked over to the table and pulled out the drawer. It was distracting seeing that beautiful man on the bed, his long, rock-hard cock red and needy standing proud for me. I regretfully turned from him to inspect the drawer. It seemed my detective had a collection of mementos. Soap, deodorant, missing cufflink among other whatnots. 

All mine.

“You’ve been busy,” I remarked, as I retrieved the tube of lube, also mine, and shut the drawer. I tossed the tube to Sherlock. Those long fingers plucked it with ease out of the air. I licked my bottom lip, then walked slowly back to the foot of the bed, put my hands behind my back with feet apart shoulder width. 

“Show me” was my order.

He flipped the cap and slathered some on his long fingers. He made a show of spreading his legs wide and tipped his arse up at bit so that I had a better perspective. His blush had crept down from his face to his chest although I decided it was more from arousal than embarrassment. His finger breached his hole, and I was surprised to hear a groan escape deep from within me. With a satisfied gleam in his eyes, he spread his legs further and fingered himself roughly.   


“Still not gay?” Sherlock asked, eyeing the obvious bulge in my sweatpants.

“Did I say you could speak?!” And he actually jumped when I barked out the words. “Show me,” I repeated. “Now!”

He dangled the chain in front of his face with his left hand. His eyes held mine, pupils blown wide. He held up the index finger of his right hand. Of course he would choose the most dexterous and sensitive finger on the hand. He held my dog tags in that palm, then licked his bottom lip as he oh-so deliberately coiled the entire chain like a snake loosely around his index finger. When finished, the chain was snug enough to remain wound neatly around his long, tapered finger, yet loosely enough so that the silver balls on the chain rolled freely. He slathered more lube onto the fingers of his other hand, then shoved two up his arse one more time. I’m sure it was more for effect since the fingers’ removal came with an audible pop. 

I will never forget what he did next. It is the single most obscene exhibition I have ever witnessed. With his legs spread wide like a whore, he took his index finger and shoved it, along with the chain wound round it, as far as he could up his arse and fingered himself, teasing that forbidden fruit of a man’s erogenous zone, then pulled his finger out bare, leaving the chain inside and the dog tags dangling outside his arse. 

“Yeah,” I said, my voice cracking a bit. I felt my own face flush. I was nailed to the spot. “It’s good you sterilized them--considering where you put them. Ummm. The demonstration is working out well for me. Do continue.”

Then he took his hand, wrapped it around his cock and groaned for me. It was positively pornographic. And hot. So hot. I watched him wank. God! What he could do with those fingers! He pushed his foreskin back and rolled his thumb around his glans and played with his slit, all wet and shiny with precum. I almost came in my sweatpants when he tugged a bit at the dog tags. Almost. He was stunning. All legs, cock and long, winding fingers--his body writhing on the 1,000 thread-count sheets. His stomach muscles tightened and nipples peaked. Over the years, there have been women I’ve wanted (and a few men), but I never wanted anyone as much as I wanted Sherlock Holmes. And here he was. Finally. I finally could admit it to myself. 

And it finally looked possible that I was going to get laid.

His hand pumped his shaft slow and sure, then increased, twisting his wrist as he furiously worked his throbbing cock--all the while his other hand lightly tugged at my dog tags, and the chain slipped out of his pucker one tiny silver ball at a time. His breathing came in gasps and positively rumbled. He was getting close.

“Stand down! You aren’t allowed to cum! Not until I say you can,” I said. Sherlock actually fucking whimpered, but his hand froze.   


“Take a few deep breaths, then I want you to show me the rest of what you do. Pretend like I’m not here.”

“I don’t know if that’s possible,  _ Doctor _ ,” Mr. Velvet-voiced Posh-boy said.

After being strapped to Semtex and doing disgusting things with my dog tags, he owed me. 

“Do it. You’re a good actor.”

“I won’t have to act.”  He closed his eyes. He started again. I wasn’t sure if I was going to live through this. With his eyes shut, what vestiges of inhibitions he had left, fell away. 

He suddenly became very vocal. No words in particular except a bit of profanity and my name. For the most part, he groaned and actually hummed. He hummed. I thought about what it would be like to have him humming like that with my cock between those plump lips. That was it. I took my dick out and began mimicking Sherlock’s wanking pattern, which had more of a rhythm to it than my own.

He’d opened his eyes at some point to watch me beating off in tandem with him. Like anything else I did with Sherlock, I felt that rush as he watched me. 

I’m not sure how I kept myself from coming when he did, especially when he yanked the dog tag’s chain out of his arse as he came and shot ribbons all over his stomach and chest. And those beautiful large feet--his toes actually spasmed.   


I stripped off my sweatpants and t-shirt and threw them to the floor. I wasn’t as neat and tidy as Sherlock. 

“Prepare for further inspection,” I said, stepping to the side of the bed near his head. “Before I begin, I have to ask…”

“Yes. The answer is yes.” 

“That’s all I wanted to know,” I said. I crawled on to the bed and straddled his hips, dragging my cock across the cum on his belly. “As your Commanding Officer I need to deal with some criminal conduct committed against me, taking MY property. Turnabout is fair play. I think I’ll just take something of yours.” I watched his surprised face as I yanked the tie off his bathrobe with a snap and grabbed both his wrists and pinned them above his head. His cock jerked appreciatively as as I wound the red tie around his wrists. I loved the way his large hands looked above his head. The contrast was lovely. It was a fitting and pleasurable punishment I could appreciate. Visibly.

“John,” he repeated. To hear my name fondled by that smooth baritone voice was rapture. He’d probably say I was being overly romantic for thinking that. I tightened the ties a notch, then secured them to the headboard. Both our cocks twitched as I did it.

“Tell me what _ you need _ ,” I demanded, “since _ I plan  _ to take what _ I need from you _ .”

His eyes practically rolled back in his head when I said it. I had to slap him a bit to get his attention. Not too hard, just enough so he snapped out of it.

“John, you have callouses on your hands--from your gun,” he said in an awestruck voice.   


I raised my eyebrow. “Yes,” I said.

“ _ Touch me again _ .” His eyes narrowed, then widened like saucers in delight--the same expression he wore in one of his lightning bolt moments when deducing a practically impossible double homicide. I felt awestruck myself that I could put that look on his face.

I gave him exactly what he wanted since I wanted it as much. I let my trigger finger caress his cheek, then echoed that same trail with my other hand on the other side of his face where I’d slapped him. I kissed my handprint, and his moan was fathomless. I slipped one hand down his neck while I let the other cupped the back of his head. Lovely sighs and eye flutters followed as I moved my fingers down and drew a lazy pattern across his chest. As my callused fingers found their way to his cock, he strained against the ties. 

“Excellent refractory time,” I said, grasping the base of his dick tightly, and he tugged hard enough to shake the headboard. “But you do need to be quiet. We wouldn’t want to disturb Mrs. Hudson. If you do, I might have to restrain you further.” Sherlock shook his head. 

”Next time, I’ll bring my gun with me; I bet you’d like that,” I added. He nodded vigorously.  _ Yes, he would _ , his cock answered and went from semi-hard to rigid in seconds. I pumped his cock harder and the sound of my hand working it echoed off his walls. 

I looked over and down into the open drawer of his bedside table. “Stealing from an army officer. That kind of conduct could get you detention in a military facility. Up to two years. Of course, I could choose where you should carry out that sentence. I think it best served in my bed. The headboard is much sturdier, and the room more private. No one to hear you.” 

Sherlock swallowed hard, adam’s apple bobbing erratically. I slowed my hand on his cock. “We need to be thoughtful of others. We wouldn’t want to disturb them with the noise.”

“No,” he whispered gruffly. 

“Good.” 

I let go of his dick and he groaned in disappointment until I took the tube of lube that rested next to his pillow and slathered some on my hand and raised my eyebrow at him. He slowly nodded. 

“Very good,” I said. 

I kissed him first, exploring his mouth thoroughly with my tongue. He returned as well as I gave. He obviously had some practice at it--his wicked teeth nipped at my bottom lip. However, I wasn’t sure how much practice he’d had at what we were about to do next, so I wanted to make sure he was prepared. His breathing, heart rate and blood pressure had continued to increase. Physically he was responding beautifully. I wanted him to also be as responsive mentally.

I broke our kisses and looked down at him for some reassurance. Of course he knew my hesitation. 

“The answer is still yes,” he said, nodding. I kissed a trail down his stomach. His legs fell apart more, knees splayed and resting flat on the bed. The man was so flexible!

I reached down between his legs. His testicles withdrew up into his scrotum perfectly as my finger toyed with his pucker. Beautiful.

It was my intent to bring him to plateau a few times before he came again; however, I didn’t know if I had enough self control to hold myself off to do that since I hadn’t come yet. He was so responsive: muscles tensing, breathing erratic, cock jerking and twitching with precum glistening on the tip. I licked it off, and he groaned as I pressed gently on the skin between his balls and anus. His rumbles were better than listening to Sherlock play Tchaikovsky on his violin. And that was pretty hot.

No, I wouldn’t last long enough with my dick, but my fingers? That might work. 

So I stroked his perineum a bit more, then decided I’d reach inside of him and do one better than either his fingers or my dog tags could do--I’d diddle him within an inch of his life. 

I used my trigger finger. I knew he’d appreciate that. I breached him slowly. He pushed back. Eager.  I found that walnut-sized fleshy ball hiding behind the anal wall. Finding can be a bit like playing hide-and-seek at times. I gave it one light stroke. Then another. Milking his prostate was not only healthy, but obviously brought Sherlock to the edge fast. 

“John! Yes!”

I stopped. 

“Nooo!”

“Yes,” I replied wickedly and waited for him to be well beyond the brink of a possible orgasm. Then I started teasing his prostate all over again until he was a blubbering, trembling mess. To bottle this moment! To contain this man’s passion! A man who always fought to keep such tight control, to contain his surrender, would be the greatest aphrodisiac I could ever put hands on!

Finally I can take no more. I almost untied him, but I wanted him this way. I knew this paradox, this man. The loss of self control. It freed him. I rested his legs on my shoulders and lined up my cock and slowly entered him.   


I didn't want to hurt him. Still, his knuckles had turned white from gripping the tie, and I became concerned. I had to still myself. Take it slower. He was so fucking tight around me I was going to come unless I distracted myself anyway. I listened to muffled echoes from Baker Street below, smelled the coffee downstairs. But it was no use. Only him. I fell closer with every ripple of his chest, every spasm in his ass at I hit his sweet spot. I was going to come. Even as I slowed down. Even as I looked at his feet next to my head. I was going to come.

As I eased up, Sherlock realized why. "Harder," he said. He needed it more. I thrust in at a steady rhythm. I looked down at him. Sweat beaded across his forehead. Pupils blow. He was perfection.

I took my hand that propped my upper half of my body off of the mattress and wrapped it around his cock and let Sherlock’s legs support my most of my weight. I slammed my cock hard into him, my balls slapping against him. 

I came before, but not much. I rocked into him, and he shook and spasmed, blood pressure, heart rate, and breathing rapid--all of that oxygen flooding into him for the release. It was like witnessing a thousand sunsets. I collapsed on top of him. Spent. With what little energy I had left, I inched my way up and gently untied his wrists. I wanted to make sure he was okay, but the second he was free he hugged me to him so hard I thought he’d crush the life out of me. His hands, finally freed, explored uncharted territory while his lips, mouth and his naughty tongue curled my toes. 

He finally came up for air. I rolled off him, but spooned up next to him as his hands continued on their mission. I still needed to take a look at his wrists.

“That was most satisfying,” he said, finally surrendering his hands to me for inspection.

“You were a bit  _ too _ excited over my gun,” I said. His wrists were chafed a bit. I decided I should put some salve on them later. “Should I be jealous? Sherlock, exactly what have you already done with my gun?”

“We are a couple,” he said. I was a bit confused, and he immediately clarified instead of chastising my mental capabilities. “No, not the gun and I. You and I  _ are  _ a couple.”

Oh. Avoiding the actual question of what he did to my gun. I could do that too. Or I could be truthful with myself and Sherlock.

“We are together,” I said, fingers brushing the palms of his hands. “But if we’re in my room next time, the gun shouldn’t come as a problem. I’ll share. But only with my gun.”

Sherlock was satisfied with that. He stretched and scratched his stomach.

“We should get cleaned up,” he said, inspecting his the semi-dried cum on his hand and stomach.

“I guess I don’t want to know what you’ve done with it,” I said. “The gun that is.”

“I didn’t think it wise to sterilize it.”

“Sherlock!”

“I thought you’d already come to terms with that--no sense getting jealous of a gun OR  _ that woman _ . I have an army doctor to take care of me.” Sherlock turned to face me. “And I did exactly as you instructed. I don’t always have to have the last word. Now, about your gun…”

“Which one?” 

He laughed at my bad joke, then reached over.

“This one.” 

I kissed him. There were no “I love yous” or other words of affection that night, but we both knew it was the start of a new, intimate side to our partnership that we were both eager to explore.

Days passed and we shared my room and the couch and kitchen table and my gun numerous times. We really didn’t need words of affection. I shouldn’t have been surprised that he could be a passionate lover, after all, I’d seen his passion for the chase. 

He especially loved watching me clean my gun. 

Lestrade had texted us for help on a case early one morning regarding two women strangled--both with their shoes missing and both found near the Teddington Locks a week to the day apart. The second victim was found by one of the lock keepers and discovered by someone walking the footbridge who spotted the body on the riverbank. It can normally only be reached on foot since the nearest road is Riverside Drive in Ham. We took an alternate route to the lock from Ferry Road Teddington over the footbridges since the body was near one of them. 

Lestrade and Anderson were there along with some other detectives. Sherlock immediately began to inspect the scene and the body. He called me near. A few people were around, ogling, but considering the location and that it was early morning, not many.

The body had never been in the river, and it was obvious to even myself that she had been killed somewhere nearby and pulled off the path and left by the bank. The trees nearby afforded places to hide from any hiker or jogger, which I assumed the latter since she wore sweats and headband.

Sherlock, of course, was way ahead of me. He was done inspecting the body and was already looking closely in an area with some shrubbery--most likely where the murder occurred--when he called me over.

Lestrade and Anderson were within earshot as he began to explain. “Although it would appear to be crimes of opportunity, the victims were not randomly chosen nor was it happenstance. In fact that shoes were removed had nothing to do with a shoe fetish.” Sherlock bent his head next to my ear and said in a hushed voice, “I see you brought your gun.” 

No mistaking the gleam in his eyes: We’d left before our usual morning tryst. Needless to say we were both a bit randy. And with a crime scene on top of it? Yes, a bit not good, but that never stopped him before.

Lestrade could see something was up and started to walk toward us. Of course, at that point, he didn’t realize what was really up. Sherlock, on the other hand, did. In fact, he instigated it. He had stepped behind me and was pressed against my backside where my gun was tucked. He wasn’t exactly humping me, but close enough. He stopped, but didn’t step away as Lestrade stood next to us. My face was hot. I was hot. My gun was hotter. Of course, Sherlock would ask me _which_ gun.

Sherlock stepped away when Anderson also walked up to us. “You need to do some background research,” Sherlock said, turning to Lestrade. “While there are no familial ties, you’ll find a connection between the two victims. This was no serial killer. This was premeditated murder for gain.”

“But the shoes…” Anderson said.

“Yes, taken to make it look like it was someone with a fetish or wanted souvenirs. Neither is the case. Look at her hand,” Sherlock said, walking over to the body and the rest of us following. “Even Anderson should have noticed it. She's wearing the same ring as the other victim.” Sherlock leaned down and pointed at her hand.

As he bent down, beneath his scarf I saw a chain peek out from around his neck. My dog tags. I should have been angry, but instead I felt all warm inside. I was happy. Ecstatic even. He was wearing a part of me. I felt like skipping. Which was decidedly wrong for a crime scene. 

“It’s just a simple band. Anyone could have that same ring,” Anderson said. 

“Not simple. Just appears simple. Look carefully.” 

I noticed the gold was inlaid with a subtle pattern using different types of gold. Rose gold for one. Not sure of the others since I’m no jeweler. Sherlock did know a lot about it, however. While I was so engrossed, Sherlock took the opportunity to inch behind and sidled-up closer to my backside again. The wanker. 

“Not  _ everything  _ is a kinky fetish, Anderson,” Sherlock drawled out. “Just _ some  _ things.” He practically purred saying this--even Lestrade gave Sherlock an odd look. I swallowed as he shifted behind me. This was not happening. He was not covertly groping my arse and gun with people standing next to us!

“Enough!” I barked out, and Sherlock stepped back. I grabbed his mischievous hand as I turned to meet Lestrade and Anderson’s shocked faces. “Sherlock will text you with the rest of the details. Until then, do your research and find the connection.” Their mouths hung open as I proceeded to pull Sherlock away from the crime scene and across the footbridge. 

He wanted to blow me in the bushes, and I refused. I really didn’t want to spend the rest of the day jailed for public indecency even if he looked really hot on his knees. 

We took a cab home, well, just because it was the fastest. Sherlock practically pushed me up the stairs to 221B. We were sweaty and gasping for breath before making it up the steps to my room. I grabbed his arse and rutted against his leg while my hands slid between us to help matters along.

“Just finish me off already, John!” I do like dragging it out a bit long. Only because he looks so attractive when he’s miserable. “What do I have to do?” he pleaded.

I pulled my pistol from the back of my jeans. 

First I confirmed that my gun was unloaded and removed the magazine, then I retracted the slide until it stopped and engaged the slide’s catch lever just to make sure. I slapped it back together. Just doing that in front of Sherlock was about enough to make him cum in his trousers.

I stepped up him, and slid the barrel down his chest, past his navel and rubbed it against the line of his cock in his trousers. I made circles around it, teasing him. At about the 6 o'clock position, I began to slide the barrel up and down his length. Sherlock’s recoil was spectacular. His cock was my spring and guide. 

With a moan of disappointment from him, I pulled the pistol away from his cock.

“What’s this?” I asked, pulling the chain out from beneath his collar with the barrel of my gun. The look of shock on his face! He’s so happy when I surprise him. 

“Exactly what you think it is,” he said.

“And what does it mean?” I asked.

“Exactly what you think it means.”

I smiled at him. “Say it,” I said, caressing his jaw with my gun.

He blinked at me. Opened his mouth to speak and stammered instead.

“Say it,” I coaxed, and dragged the barrel down his chest over his heart.

“I love you.” 

I guess it was my turn to be surprised. That I had not expected. I dropped my SIG to the floor next to the magazine.

“How long?” I asked.

“Since you killed the cab driver.” 

“Me, too.” I stared into that beautiful man’s face. “Look at us. We sure are a fucked pair.”

“Yes, John. We’re perfect for each other. A perfect fit.”

He was right, like always. At least nearly always. I took him upstairs to my bed, and he showed me. My dog tags. And _ HIS  _ gun. 

And I said it back. Those three words. Just so he heard.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I had a wonderful time writing this. Kudo and comments appreciated!
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr: [**elwinglyre Tumblr**](https://elwinglyre.tumblr.com/)!


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